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The ward stone erupted from the earth of the cliffs. Weathered. Gold veined. As ageless as the Fey themselves in their hidden kingdom. Did they know of Máelodor’s plans to bring a return of the Lost Days when the races of faery and mortal mingled? When magic blossomed unlooked for and unexpected from peasant hovels to castle solars? Did they care?
Some Fey enjoyed mankind and spent more time than not among the mortal world. The warrior queen Scathach, head of the brotherhood of Amhas-draoi, was one such. Creating heroes from those Other with the talent and the will to follow her. But most Fey remained aloof and disdainful of their lesser relations. Looked upon them with thinly veiled contempt bordering at times on outright hostility.
Unclaimed by either race. Neither fish nor fowl.
He grunted his disgust. No, he’d get no assistance from the Fey. They’d relish a war between Duinedon and Other like a spectator sport. Lay odds. Cast wagers. And care not who emerged the victor as long as they were left alone.
At the first touch of flesh to stone, mage energy shot through his fingers and up his arm in a jerky shock that left him reeling. Damn. He shook off the twitchy muscles. Tried again. Taking his time. Bracing himself for the mule kick of magic that met his attempt.
Inhaling, he dove beneath the surface panic. Caught and held fast to that part of him where magic lived. A source of great power, misshapen and blighted though it was. Drawing it forth was like harnessing the power of the stars. A vast spinning whirlpool of energy and light and fire. It dazzled the vision. Set his heart galloping. Trembled already fatigued limbs.
“Dor. Ebrenn.”
The gathered energy released in a lightning arc between stone and flesh.
“Dowr. Tanyow.”
The inferno ignited. A thousand fires set throughout his body. A human torch.
“Menhir. Junya.”
The charge swelled until it threatened to consume him with the force of a funeral pyre. He cried out. Yanked his hands from the ward stone, dropping to his knees with a shuddering moan.
“Damn it all to hell,” he ground out through gritted teeth, his arms hanging numb at his sides. Head lowered.
But safe. For now.
Cliffs. Wind. The blind malevolence of a creature born of smoke and wind. The shine off Father’s knife. And the bone-splintering plummet to the rocks below.
As always Aidan woke just before he hit. Sheets drenched. Heart racing. Every muscle taut as a pulled bow.
Tonight he sought comfort in the play of the moon across the ceiling. The sorrowful call of an owl. A faraway answer. The muted roar of the ocean. But though hours passed, relief was denied him.
As was sleep.
“The tapestry’s hiding place is in there somewhere”—he tapped the cover of the diary—“I’m sure of it. Why else would Máelodor send that creature after it?”
Jack looked to the door. At least the tenth time he’d done so in the past two hours.
“Stop obsessing over Miss Roseingrave and pay attention. If she returns at all, it will probably be an ambush in the middle of the night. Amhas-draoi modus operandi.”
Caught, Jack straightened in his chair. Cast a scathing look in Aidan’s direction. “You know, what you refer to as cold-blooded murder, others term justifiable homicide.”
The jab slid beneath his guard with stomach-crunching power. He closed his eyes, letting the truth of the strike pass before he faced his cousin. “I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did,” Jack grumbled. “About time you realized it.”
Putting aside the diary, Aidan crossed his arms over his chest. Leaned against the desk. “Do you want to get it off your chest?”
“Do you?” Jack parried.
“I asked you first.”
“Very well.” As if working up his courage, Jack threw himself from his seat. Paced the floor. Reached for then dismissed the sherry decanter. Swung around, head high and on the attack. “Helena Roseingrave is an amazing woman. Smart. Beautiful. Courageous. Strong. A highly developed sense of the ironic.”
“And the problem is?”
Jack deflated. Surrendered to the sherry. “She’s says I’m a sweet fellow, but not her type. What’s that supposed to mean?”
